The Pale Fracture
The rain slicked the cobblestones of the Whitechapel district into a mirror of grime and gaslight, reflecting the jagged, iron-boned skeletons of the industrial spires that pierced the perpetual fog. You stood beneath the awning of the closed chandlery, your fingers white-knuckled around the leather satchel, feeling the heavy, cold weight of the cylinder inside press against your hip like a...
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